


the minor fall, the major lift

by Chrome



Series: and by morning [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: All the Sex Described in This Fic is Unambiguously Consensual, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Art by Mary Kaoru, Canon Compliant, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Collaboration, Consensual Sex, Discussion of Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, M/M, Okaeri | yoihomezine, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 14:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: There is no trace of that bright confidence now, and Yuuri has had unsettling, anxiety-ridden dreams but he can’t for the life of him decide what might have unraveled Viktor so thoroughly as this.Viktor breaks a long-held silence. Yuuri starts to put the pieces back together.





	the minor fall, the major lift

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with some potentially triggering issues. Please read the tags and take care of yourself.
> 
> My thanks and love as always to [Allison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor), and also to [Izzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyisozaki), who I'm pretty sure beta read this. It's been a while. This fic was written for Okaeri: the Yuri!!! on Ice Home Zine. It is a collaboration with [Mary Kaoru](https://adreamorasong-art.tumblr.com/), whose beautiful art is in this fic and which you can see more of [here](https://marykaoru.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This fic is the third in a series. It is set before the other two fics, so it can stand alone, but you might enjoy reading the other two first.

When Yuuri wakes up in the middle of the night, the first thing he realizes is that he is cold. Contrary to what Viktor occasionally claims, the freezing winter isn’t entirely foreign to him—it does occasionally snow in Hasetsu, after all, and even if it didn’t he’s spent winters in Detroit. St. Petersburg is unique only in how biting the cold is some mornings, how sharply the wind can cut through his clothing.

The first week after he moved, Viktor had dressed Yuuri when they went out, layering sweater over shirt over undershirt and then wrapping him in the thick winter coat Yuuri had bought for his first winter in Detroit, fingers brushing Yuuri’s cheek as he wound the scarf around his face and gently tugged a hat down over his ears. When he thinks back, Yuuri can feel the phantom pressure of Viktor’s touch, lingering over his ring before he slid the gloves onto Yuuri’s hands.

But there it is, he realizes as he gradually surfaces into total awareness: no Viktor. Viktor is a clingy sleeper, which was nightmarish in Hasetsu’s summer heat but nothing but welcome in the dead of Russian winter. The apartment is warm enough, but it’s Viktor’s arms curled around him beneath the heavy down comforter that keep the chill out at night.

No arms curl around him now, and when he extends his fingers to the side the sheets are cool to the touch. He sits up and starts to look for his glasses, but they aren’t necessary—Viktor has gone no further than the edge of the bed, fully divested of the comforter and facing the wall.

Yuuri can’t come up with an immediate explanation; he decides, absurdly, that Viktor must be looking at his phone, turned away to keep the light from disturbing Yuuri. Never mind the fact that Viktor often falls asleep with Yuuri texting next to him, and that Yuuri tends to sleep more heavily: it’s the only answer he can conjure as to why Viktor is sitting silent and apart in their darkened bedroom.

“Viktor?” he asks. His voice is thick with sleep.

Viktor doesn’t turn, doesn’t respond, and a rush of worry shoots through him. “Vitya?” He sits up and leans over to place a hand on Viktor’s shoulder.

Viktor flinches and ducks his head. Yuuri jerks his hand back, but before he does he realizes that Viktor is shaking underneath his palm. It isn’t merely a shiver, either—it is a shudder that wracks his whole body with every breath.

“Vitya!” Yuuri is across the bed in a second, legs bundled awkwardly beneath him. At the closer distance, he can see that Viktor has one hand braced against the bed, fingers gripping the sheet like he’s clinging to the rail of a ship in a storm. The other hand is balled into a fist and pressed against his mouth to stifle the sobs. The tears drip down his face and leave his eyes the particular shade of blue that Yuuri guiltily thinks of as especially beautiful.

The intrigued impulse that occasionally takes Yuuri when Viktor cries doesn’t surface; Viktor is biting at his knuckles hard enough to leave red indents in his skin. “Shh,” Yuuri tugs his hand away from his mouth and hears the first choking sob that Viktor lets escape. “Don’t do that.” He gently uncurls Viktor’s fingers, brushes his thumb hesitantly over the red marks. Viktor lets out another sob, a horrible gasping noise, and he hiccups as he tries to still his breathing, the desperate noise of a person trying to calm themselves who simply can’t.

The sound feels like a punch to Yuuri’s gut. “No, it’s okay, it’s alright, just breathe,” he soothes, and rubs Viktor’s back. Viktor flinches again, and Yuuri withdraws.

It’s so unlike Viktor to pull away from Yuuri’s touch that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do. He folds his hands into his lap. “Vitya? It’s okay, I won’t touch you if you don’t want.”

“No, I—“ Viktor tries before it’s interrupted by another hiccupping sob. It takes three more breaths before he can manage to get another word out. “Please.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says. He’s reluctant to force contact again in case he’s misinterpreted after Viktor’s initial flinch, but he holds out his arms and Viktor barely hesitates before he tips sideway into them and buries his face in Yuuri’s chest, his sobs muffled in the folds of Yuuri’s sweatshirt.

Yuuri curls one arm around Viktor’s back and holds him tightly, reaching up with the other to comb through Viktor’s hair with his fingers. “I’ve got you,” he promises. “Vitya, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Viktor gasps out against his neck, but the fact that the crying doesn’t ease says otherwise. Yuuri has seen Viktor cry before, has accidentally driven him to tears, but never like this, not to the extent that each breath seems like it might rip him apart.

It hurts to watch, something deep in Yuuri’s gut clenching every time Viktor shudders against him.

“Please,” Yuuri begs, “I want to help. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Nothing. A nightmare.”

Yuuri smooths Viktor’s bangs down with his fingers, pets the pieces that curl at the back of his neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Viktor shakes his head again and says nothing.

“Okay.” They’re still at the edge of the bed, and it’s chilly without the blankets, so Yuuri gently guides them back onto the mattress. Still clutching at Viktor with one hand, he tugs the comforter over them and tucks it around Viktor’s shoulders. Then he leans back against the pillows, drawing Viktor down on top of him.

They sleep like this, sometimes, Viktor’s weight like a soothing blanket over him, but Viktor is still trembling too badly to be a source of comfort. Earlier tonight their positions were reversed, Yuuri propping himself on his arms to see Viktor half-breathless but smirking up at him, hands gripping Yuuri’s hips just gently enough not to leave marks. Viktor had teased him brightly then, asking if he lived up to Yuuri’s teenage fantasies, and then he’d laughed against Yuuri’s mouth when Yuuri pressed their lips together to silence him.

There is no trace of that bright confidence now, and Yuuri has had unsettling, anxiety-ridden dreams but he can’t for the life of him decide what might have unraveled Viktor so thoroughly as this.

He rubs Viktor’s back, hoping that the gentle repetition of the motion and the warmth of the blanket over him and Yuuri beneath will help him calm down enough to talk about it. It’s several long minutes before Viktor’s breathing starts to settle out, though, and when Yuuri stills his hand and shifts back a little to look, he discovers that Viktor has cried himself to sleep.

Yuuri lies there for another half-hour, too unsettled to slip so easily back into sleep himself, but eventually he dozes off too, his fear softened by the late hour and the warm weight of Viktor against him.

\---

Viktor has already extricated himself when Yuuri wakes the next morning, and when Yuuri steps into the bathroom, he swipes a hand across the steam on the glass to make eye contact through the shower door. His eyes are clear, and he smiles at Yuuri from beneath the spray.

“Do you want to join me?” he asks, voice echoing against the tile.

“No, I—” Yuuri starts, and then hesitates because he does, actually. The morning is not much warmer than the night, and the view out the window still mostly dark—the heat radiating from the water is pleasant even through the glass. “Okay.” He sheds his sweats and underwear and pulls open the shower door. Viktor recoils dramatically from the rush of cold air. Yuuri can’t suppress a giggle as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

“You laugh,” Viktor grumbles, “But wait until I do it to you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Yuuri says primly. “I grew up in a warm climate. I might die.” He alternates between taking this tack and reminding Viktor, when he gets particularly fussy, that Yuuri is in fact familiar with winter in Michigan, which makes neither argument particularly convincing. But Viktor snickers a little when he says it, which loosens a knot that Yuuri hadn’t even realized was still coiled in his chest.

“Hey,” Yuuri says, and then stops.

“Hey,” Viktor says, uncapping the shampoo and squeezing some into his hand. “Come here.”

Yuuri steps back to let Viktor lather the soap into his hair; it’s comforting, and it gives him the chance to decide what he wants to say. “Are you okay?”

“Perfect,” Viktor says lightly. Yuuri can’t see his expression from this position, but he can guess, and he hates that fake smile more than almost anything.

Yuuri lets out a low noise in his throat, lets Viktor work his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, from the roots to the ends that brush past his ears, longer than it’s been in years if not ever. Eventually Viktor’s satisfied and his hands slide down to Yuuri’s shoulders, guiding him under the showerhead to wash out the soap.

“Can we talk about last night?” Yuuri asks quietly, tipping his head back under the spray. His eyes are closed and his back to Viktor still, but he can feel him tense anyway. “We don’t have to, but—“

“Yes,” Viktor says. “But not—not right now. I have to…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, so Yuuri doesn’t know what he has to do, but he’s had years of anxiety to deal with and months of grappling with the right way to say things to Viktor, trying to express his fears and insecurities in a way that doesn’t feel inadequate. He knows the impulse to wait until you’re ready, to be sure that you can say the right thing.

Part of him hopes that it’s something silly—that Viktor dreamed of an alien invasion, or a mafia hit, or something else out of a thriller movie that could never happen in real life and only felt unsettling in the subliminal world. Something that could shake you badly at the time, but in the light of day only felt foolish and impossible to explain.

Something about the tension of Viktor’s body when it brushes against Yuuri’s makes him think otherwise. Viktor is willing to laugh at himself; they’ve been together long enough to mostly pass the point of hiding little foibles. He suspects that if Viktor thought an explanation would put him at ease, he’d already have it.

Which leaves too many possibilities, still, all terrifying, all equally unlikely. Yuuri has no idea what dream could leave Viktor so utterly shattered—bright, confident Viktor, who is now lazily tracing his fingers along Yuuri’s spine with the casual air of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Vitya,” Yuuri tries to warn, and maybe it starts that way but his voice goes up at the end when Viktor’s hand doesn’t stop at the small of his back and instead comes downward to cup his ass.

“What?” Viktor says, too innocent for the way his fingers are now splayed against Yuuri’s inner thigh. Yuuri turns around to face him, and Viktor waits to see the permission in his expression before he settles on the floor of the shower and takes Yuuri’s length in his hand. It takes little more than the sight of Viktor like this to make Yuuri half-hard: on his knees in front of Yuuri, head tipped back to look at him and wet hair plastered to his cheeks. The practiced stroke of Viktor’s hand brings him to full hardness before Viktor hesitates, mouth pulling up in a half smile as he waits for Yuuri to ask for what he wants. It’s sexy and infuriating at the same time.

“Please,” he bites out, reaching down to cup Viktor’s face, drawing his thumb across his cheekbone to brush away the water. It reminds him uncomfortably of Viktor’s tears the night before, except that he can feel the skin dimple under his fingers as Viktor grins.

“What?” Viktor asks again, and Yuuri slides a hand into his hair, not pulling hard enough to hurt but enough to try and put him where Yuuri wants him.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says again, and this time there’s no warning in it at all, it’s just a plea. Viktor answers it when he licks along the shaft and then takes Yuuri into his mouth with almost no warning. Yuuri lets out a shuddery sigh at the sensation, letting go of Viktor’s hair so he can brace himself against his shoulders instead. Viktor’s free hand settles on his hip as his tongue works against him and Yuuri shudders. Viktor pulls off for a moment and his warm breath ghosts across Yuuri’s inner thighs.

Yuuri tries to catch his breath, but it’s difficult considering where Viktor’s fingers are reaching, his eyes bright when he looks up to see the flush in Yuuri’s cheeks. It’s that flash of blue that makes Yuuri pause and let go of Viktor’s shoulders to cup his face, marveling at the fact that he’s holding the most precious thing he’s ever had between his hands.

“I love you,” Yuuri says, breathless. “You know that?”

“I love you too,” Viktor says.

“I know,” Yuuri says, and in a rush of urgency left over from the night before, he repeats his question, “But you know I love you, don’t you?”

There is a flash of something in Viktor’s eyes, a little too quickly for Yuuri to place. “Yes.”

“I promise,” Yuuri insists, and there it is. There is the fear from the night before in Viktor’s gaze, the uncertainty. ‘Lost’ is not a word Yuuri would ever ascribe to Viktor, but he looks it now, tensing on the shower floor. “No matter what, I love you.”

Viktor smiles, but the sadness doesn’t leave his eyes, and when he takes Yuuri’s cock in his mouth again Yuuri thinks it’s half to avoid answering. He sucks hard and it takes only another moment before Yuuri sighs and spills into Viktor’s mouth.

He waits until he catches his breath before he takes the subject up again, and sits on the shower floor beside Viktor. “I mean that,” Yuuri says, when Viktor leans in to kiss him. He tastes himself in Viktor’s mouth before they pull back, and Yuuri pulls him into a tight hug. “You can tell me anything.”

“I’ll tell you,” Viktor promises, but there’s a heaviness to his words that makes Yuuri think he doesn’t quite believe what Yuuri’s saying. “Just. Not yet. Please.”

“However long you need,” Yuuri says, and then says nothing else. Viktor is silent, too, and they sit and breathe together, neither of them willing to move until the water runs cold.

\---

It’s just past lunch on Saturday afternoon when Viktor stills in the doorway of the living room. Yuuri is sitting on the couch, scrolling through Instagram on his phone, and when he catches the shadow in the doorway he looks up.

“Hey,” Yuuri says.

“I have to tell you something,” Viktor says. He crosses into the room and sits down heavily at the opposite end of the couch, leaving half a foot of empty space between them. Yuuri sits up to mirror his posture, heart suddenly pounding.

“Okay,” Yuuri says.

“I don’t want you to think,” Viktor begins, and then stops. “No. This isn’t about—what I mean to say is that it was a long time ago.”

Viktor is looking anywhere but Yuuri. Yuuri can’t parse what he means and his anxiety starts to hiss worst-case-scenarios in his ear.  _ He regrets all of this. He wants to tell you he never loved you. He wants to tell you there’s someone else. _

He can feel his breath quickening and he forces himself to breathe in for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight. He repeats the cycle. He can’t afford to get ahead of himself, not when Viktor’s twisting his fingers around each other in an uncharacteristically nervous pattern.

Yuuri looks at him, really looks at him, and he sees that Viktor is shaking a little. “Vitya? Can you look at me?”

Viktor looks up. Their eyes lock, and Viktor says, “I was fifteen.” He is quiet for a moment. “Forgive me for not telling you, but I…” He can’t seem to get the words out and his gaze drops to the floor.

_For not telling me what?_ Yuuri’s mind is racing with scenarios, each less likely than the last. Whatever teenage indiscretion Viktor feels compelled to confess, he’s either blown wildly out of proportion or it’s far worse than anything Yuuri would think Viktor capable of. He can’t bring himself to interrupt, though, and he sees Viktor steel himself and then look back up.

“It was at the World Championship Banquet. He approached me, and I—I was trying so hard to be nice. To be polite. I knew I’d be moving up to Seniors soon, and already the RFKK and I, we did not see eye to eye. So I knew I could not afford to alienate the ISU. And he was one of them, and I knew it, and he knew I knew it. So I just kept smiling until he suggested we leave, and then I went with him and I did not say no until—and then it was too late and he would not listen, but…“

Viktor’s flood of words eventually trails off. Yuuri listens until he stops speaking, still uncomprehending. Then, all at once, it is utterly clear.

He feels a rush of horror. Almost simultaneously, there is a sense of relief, his anxiety drying up in seconds: nothing Viktor wants to tell him will compel Yuuri to love him any less.

“Vitya,” he says, quietly, and Viktor has gone silent, watching him. “Are you telling me that—an ISU official, that they made you do something you didn’t want?”

“I did very little,” Viktor says, and then he laughs, but it’s a wild, hysterical sound.

“He raped you,” Yuuri says, because he can’t leave room for uncertainty or misunderstanding here, not now.

Viktor opens his mouth. Shuts it. Finally he nods, a single sharp jerk of his head.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and it comes out more like a breath than a word. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” Viktor says, and he practically launches himself across the space between them on the couch into Yuuri’s arms.

“Alright,” Yuuri says. He finds himself carding his fingers through Viktor’s hair again while he looks for the right words. “So. I love you. And nothing you’ve told me could make me love you less. And it was very brave of you to tell me.”

Viktor sighs. Yuuri’s bracing himself for more tears, but now that the words are out Viktor merely seems tired. “Not so brave, I think,” Viktor says. “I’ve told no one else.”

Yuuri’s hands still in Viktor’s hair. “What?”

“You’re the only one.”

“Can you tell me, after it happened,” Yuuri begins.

“When it happened,” Viktor says. “When it became clear I, I could not stop it—it began to feel as though it was happening to someone else. As though I was watching from across the room. And when he was finished, I went back to my room, and it hurt but. Everything he had done, and everything else—the blisters on my feet, everything, it felt as though it was someone else. Like my body was not my own. And when I went back to my room I spent the whole way wanting to scream but I saw no one, and when I woke up the next morning I had no words for it, and so I said nothing.”

“So you were all alone,” Yuuri says, and his heart positively aches when he imagines it, when he thinks that the Viktor he saw on television for the first time was holding this secret and no one knew it. “You went through that all alone—Viktor, why would I think that’s less brave of you?”

When Viktor shrugs, he feels rather than sees the rise and fall of his shoulders.

“I love you,” Yuuri reiterates. “Do you know that?”

“Yes,” Viktor says, quicker than he said it in the shower that morning, and all of a sudden Yuuri remembers and tenses.

“God,” he says, letting go of Viktor and pulling away from him. “Viktor, I didn’t know that—obviously I didn’t, but, if I ever did anything that—I don’t ever want you to, to feel like you have to—” Yuuri’s breath starts to come quicker as he thinks of all the times they’ve slept together, how utterly unaware he’d been.

“No,” Viktor interrupts. He slides forward again to take both of Yuuri’s hands at once and squeezes gently. “We’ve never done anything I didn’t want. I promise you that.”

There’s total sincerity in Viktor’s eyes when he swears that Yuuri hasn’t hurt him. Yuuri studies his expression until he can convince himself that Viktor means it. “Do you ever—you’ll tell me. If I ever ask for something you don’t want, or if there’s ever a day where…” he trails off. “When I touched you the other night. You flinched. If you ever don’t want me to…I mean, I can ask you before I—”

Viktor interrupts. “I’ll tell you. But unless I say otherwise. Yuuri, I can’t think of a time when I wouldn’t want you to touch me.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says. “So you don’t ever…” he hesitates. “I just mean, because of…”

“That’s a good question,” Viktor says, slowly. “At first—I don’t know. I didn’t mind touch, I don’t think. It’s just that for a little while, my body didn’t feel like my own.”

Yuuri tightens his grip on Viktor’s hands, as though to reassure him that they’re present, that they belong to him. “It doesn’t—for a little while?”

“It came back,” Viktor says. “Little by little, it started to feel like—when you skate, how you feel every part of yourself? How you extend an arm, or where you put your weight, or just the right amount of force into a jump—you feel yourself.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says.

“It started like that, I think,” Viktor continues. “When I was on the ice, it felt less numb. Like my limbs were a part of me again, like I could feel my body. And when I got off the ice it would stay like that for a little while, before it stopped feeling like it was mine. And after a while it would last for longer and longer, and then I suppose I woke up one day and I was living inside myself again.”

Yuuri’s heart aches. He runs his thumb along Viktor’s ring while he tries to process, and then he says, “I’m really proud of you.”

“For what?” Viktor looks at him like he’s crazy.

“For—Viktor. What happened to you was—” Yuuri doesn’t know how to encapsulate it in words, but by the twist of Viktor’s expression he understands, so Yuuri plunges onward. “And you’ve had to live with it all by yourself, and you’re incredible.”

Viktor blinks once, twice, and then his eyes widen a little. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, teasing just a little. Then he sobers. “Was that what—was that what you dreamed about?”

“About—” Viktor catches his meaning and shakes his head. “No, I dreamt…” he hesitates. “That night, when I asked you whether I lived up to your teenage expectations.”

“And I said you did,” Yuuri replies with a grin. “Exceeded them.”

“You said,” Viktor says. “That now that you knew everything about me, you loved me even more.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and his heart starts to beat more rapidly. “Vitya, I—”

“But you didn’t,” Viktor says. “And I knew you didn’t, and I dreamt—” he breaks off. “I dreamt that you found out, and you were—angry, that I’d lied, that I hadn’t told you. I should have told you. And you left.”

“Oh,” Yuuri breathes out, and now Viktor’s eyes are welling up. “Oh, no, Vitya, come here.” He slides his hands up along Viktor’s arms until they’re on his shoulders and Yuuri can settle in his lap. “I wouldn’t, you know that.”

“I know,” Viktor says. “I knew, but—I didn’t. Or. I wasn’t sure.”

“Why?” Yuuri asks. “Why would you think that?” It hurts to think that Viktor believes him capable of that, callous enough to do something like that.

Viktor seems to catch the hurt in Yuuri’s voice. “It wasn’t about you,” Viktor says carefully. It takes him another second before he adds, quickly, “I thought you might be ashamed of me.”

“No,” Yuuri says. “Never.”

Viktor smiles, but there’s a bitter edge to it. “I am.”

“No,” Yuuri says. “Vitya, no.”

“I should have stopped him,” Viktor says, and his voice breaks. Yuuri understands, in a moment, that this truly isn’t about Yuuri. Viktor has said this to no one, has had these thoughts rattling around inside his head since he was fifteen years old, and ten minutes of maybe finally believing that Yuuri—that anyone—could know the truth and still love him is hardly enough to undo more than a decade of damage. “I should have told him no sooner, I shouldn’t have gone with him, I shouldn’t have made him think he had a chance in the first place—”

“No,” Yuuri says, and even he’s surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “No, Viktor, it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have done anything.”

“And if I could have?” Viktor says. “I’ve thought about it and—”

“And if you could have,” Yuuri says. “You still have nothing to be ashamed of. You were fifteen. You were Yurio’s age, you couldn’t have—you couldn’t have done anything. You should never have had to.”

That, finally, seems to get through to him. He sighs and leans into Yuuri. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri promises. He absently plays with Viktor’s hair while they sit there curled against each other. “Can I—you don’t have to, first of all.”

“Don’t have to what?”

“Have you thought about—talking about this with someone who isn’t me?”

“I don’t want people to know,” Viktor says, immediately.

“Not anyone we know,” Yuuri says. Then he clarifies, “A therapist.”

“Oh,” Viktor thinks about it. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Yuuri replies. “But it might help.”

“I’ll think about it,” Viktor says. Sometimes that’s a hedging phrase, the way people use it in English, but Yuuri can tell that Viktor actually means it.

“Do you want anything?” Yuuri asks, shifting a little against him as he remembers that he’s essentially pinning Viktor to the couch, but Viktor’s hand shoots out and curls about Yuuri’s wrist, holding him in place.

“No,” he says. “Or, yes. Stay here. Please.”

“I can do that,” Yuuri promises. He keeps moving his fingers through the ends of Viktor’s hair in the same careful rhythm. “When did you get it cut last?”

“November,” Viktor says. “It’s about time again.”

“I kind of like it like this,” Yuuri confesses. “A little longer.”

“Mmm,” Viktor says. “I need to cut it before I compete.”

“Of course.”

“I was thinking,” Viktor begins,  “That I might grow it out again, though.”

“Really?” Yuuri pulls back a little to see his expression, trying to tell if Viktor means it or is just humoring him.

“Mmhmm.” There’s definitely a spark of excitement in his eyes, Yuuri decides.

“Now?”

“During the off season. So I have a little time.”

“I’d like that,” Yuuri confesses, tucking his face back against Viktor’s neck. “I like your hair now. But I liked it long, too.”

“I know,” Viktor says, and Yuuri can feel him smiling. “It might be fun.”

They lapse into silence again for a long moment, until Yuuri feels warm dampness against his cheek. He turns in Viktor’s hold and realizes that there are tears dripping down Viktor’s face.

“Vitya?” Yuuri can’t keep the alarm from his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Viktor says. “Nothing. I’m just—I’m really happy, Yuuri. That’s all.”

“Good,” Yuuri says, and it comes out sharper and fiercer than he intends but still not as sharply as he means it. “That’s what I want. That’s all I want. Okay?”

“Okay,” Viktor whispers. After a second he adds, “You, too.”

“I’m happy,” Yuuri promises. “You make me happy.”

“Good,” Viktor says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You told me now,” Yuuri says. “And I’m glad you did, but it doesn’t change anything. It will never change anything.”

Viktor lets out a long, slow breath. “I know. I knew. Or.”

“I’m telling you now,” Yuuri says. “It doesn’t change anything.” He’s seized, suddenly, by the fear that, like knowledge is sometimes not enough for Yuuri to calm his anxiety, this will not be enough for Viktor—that Viktor will somehow in his heart still be afraid. Yuuri can’t bear the thought. He isn’t sure how well he would cope if their positions were reversed and he had to fend off Viktor’s doubts as often as Viktor confronts Yuuri’s. “Do you believe that?”

“I trust you,” Viktor says, finally, and when Yuuri reaches up a hand to cup his face there are no more tears.

“I’ll be here,” Yuuri tells him. “Okay? I’ll be here.”

“I know,” Viktor says, and Yuuri hears in his voice equal parts relief and love and hesitance and he thinks it might be enough. It will have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can, please leave a comment. They mean a lot!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as [catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com/). Come talk to me!
> 
> And remember to check out Mary's other art [here](https://marykaoru.tumblr.com/).


End file.
